


Three Words or Less

by GeneralMajorLieutenant



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Geralt POV, Jealousy, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, it's honestly just jaskier getting wrecked idk what more to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22063486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralMajorLieutenant/pseuds/GeneralMajorLieutenant
Summary: “Careful, bard,” Geralt growled, testing his teeth against Jaskier’s salty skin. “If you still have enough of a voice to sing, you’ve enough energy to fuck.”“You’ve come to a horrible conclusion, Geralt.” Jaskier lifted his head to place a slow and unexciting kiss to his lips. “I’ve been known to sing in my sleep,” he whispered after a beat, laughing when Geralt tried to make an escape.With a hand tight around his wrist, Geralt glared down at Jaskier. “I'll stay if you promise to be quiet.”“I do not promise, but you’ll stay anyway.”Jaskier was loud, even in his sleep.But perhaps he could have been worse.-_-_-_-(This is pretty much the epitome of porn without plot.... And is also now, I guess, going to be a collection of Jaskier and Geralt's sexual adventures... I can't stop writing them this was just supposed to be a oneshot I'm a MESS. However, even if some "drabbles" are related, you could consider this finished at whatever state it's in)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1203
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FAIR WARNING: I have literally only seen three episodes of the Netflix show so far and read a bit about the lore (though I now intend to read the books and binge TW3), so I made sure I did NOT bite off more than I could chew and kept this fairly straight forward. AKA do not underestimate my love for badass monster hunters in tight leather pants and blue eyed twinks in tight high-waist trousers. I would DIE for them. Even if I don't know every little thing about them... Yet...
> 
> I also proofread after being awake for 18 hours and not bothering to add both Geralt's and Jaskier's name to my laptops dictionary. Imagine the red squiggles everywhere. I'm so sorry.

Oh, Jaskier was _loud_. Inane, mindless chatter filling air that should have been still and quiet. The bard was heedless of the environment, careless of the danger he was in simply by being within three hundred feet of Geralt’s presence—and, honestly, he was _always_ much closer than three hundred feet. His words, his voice, on and on it never ended. His vocabulary sourced from some bottomless pit and it _would not end_.

Jaskier said so much while managing to say absolutely _nothing_. Nothing of importance, nothing of substance. He’d spit facts about every little thing they came across—where he’d learned, and how he’d _retained_ , all of his information was impressive, Geralt could give him that.

But he was _loud_. Bold in all that he did—and maybe that was were Geralt’s curiosity took a terrible turn.

Geralt watched Jaskier closely that night. Because that was, after all, what Geralt did. He was _silent_ , he watched, he killed, and he slept occasionally.

But he watched Jaskier in a tavern, flushed with pleasure and drink, and then decided to _listen_ when he’d seen enough.

Had he ever listened before?

Geralt heard him over the clamor and bustle of the rest of the tavern. Jaskier’s voice rang clear, projected powerfully over the crowd. He moved through it, light on his feet, jovial and maybe a little drunk. His music carried him, and for once it seemed to please those around him.

He finished with a flourish, the final notes carried clearly through the dingy room. Sweat dampened hair clung to his temples, and his eyes, startingly blue, found Geralt almost immediately. His smile came slow in response to whatever he saw—or _thought_ he saw—in Geralt’s expression.

Ordinarily, Geralt would have ignored the way he sauntered over to the corner he’d claimed. He wouldn’t have let Jaskier snatch his mug from loose fingers, and he wouldn’t have watched as he drank the cheap beer in long, greedy, gulps.

“So?” Jaskier said on a sharp exhale, eyes gleaming in a way Geralt wasn’t sure he liked.

Though he didn’t… _hate_ it either.

“So?” Geralt repeated, refusing to give an inch when Jaskier stepped bravely closer.

“ _So_ , what’s the criticism of the night? I can take it, anything you throw at me.” A twitch of a smile, a rake of a glance—the boy was bold. “You’d be surprised by the… brutality I can handle. I’ve had more than just stale bread thrown at me before, Geralt.”

His teasing was met with silence as Geralt tried to decide which choice he’d ultimately make. This was not the first time Jaskier had thrown thinly veiled innuendos in his direction, and it was very likely not going to be the last time. It was also not the first time Geralt had been tempted. Whether Geralt chose to respond _this_ time, however…

Perhaps he already had.

An inch closer. Jaskier tilted his head, doe eyed and earnest. “Three words or less, Witcher. What’ll it be?”

A beat of silence. Geralt stared down at the bard and wondered about a lot things. Most of which, he decided, could only be determined one way.

“Find an inn,” Geralt said as he plucked Jaskier’s coin purse off his belt and made his way towards the barkeep.

Something almost resembling a chuckle escaped him at Jaskier’s soft squeal.

* * *

Jaskier hit the lumpy mattress hard, and when Geralt followed the wooden frame gave a worrying groan of protest, smothered mostly by Jaskier’s peals of laughter. Jaskier’s legs parted easily for him as he reached for Geralt, hands finding their place on broad shoulders. He sang, “At the hands of a brute, a simple bard comes undone—”

“Shut up,” Geralt snapped as he surveyed the man beneath him, organizing and planning his attack—for lack of a better term.

He decided the _fastest_ way to rid Jaskier of his clothing was to rip it off. An action that earned him not much more than a scandalized little cry Jaskier absolutely did not mean. Chest bare, the tattered remains of his undershirt were tangled around arms he’d flung out from his sides, open and exposed and so _satisfied_ it was almost infuriating.

“Tell me, Witcher, what exactly have I done to _finally_ elicit this response from you?” Jaskier asked, one foot sliding up Geralt’s lower leg while nimble fingers plucked at his trousers ties like the would his lute. A moment after Geralt shed his own shirt came a chiding addition, “I’ll need to be sure to repeat it… And why do you get to keep your clothes intact?”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by an ankle, stretching the offending leg up and taking note of his flexibility. “You think you could rip them off?” he asked, propping the leg on his shoulder while he turned his attention to the last of Jaskier’s clothes.

Jaskier was an interesting partner. He did not demand more of Geralt, but neither did he _give_ more than Geralt offered. He matched him, meeting the pace Geralt set and taking it no further. An infuriatingly tantalizing experience—the whores Geralt bedded often took the lead, eager to please in hopes of a greater tip.

But Jaskier was no whore, and their coupling was not based on gold.

If Geralt _wanted_ , he had to _give_. A concept he struggled with.

While Jaskier’s fingers raked along his body, pulling and pushing, leaving goosebumps in their wake, Geralt grabbed and groped. Positioning Jaskier has he pleased, he tasted sweat-salty skin and left his mark wherever Jaskier allowed him to linger.

They continued like this, petting and grinding and panting into each other’s mouths, until Jaskier grabbed his chin, unexpected strength bringing Geralt to heel. His eyes, startingly intense at this close a distance, demanded nothing less than his full attention.

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier posed the question quietly—and Jaskier never did _anything_ quietly.

Geralt pulled slowly away from the bard, though left one hand placed firmly on his belly to keep him where he was. A moment to think, to appreciate the human bruised and stirring beneath him. Jaskier hid nothing, was shamed by nothing, he flourished under the scrutiny. Kiss swollen lips twisted into a smile and his fingers closed around Geralt’s wrist at his naval.

Geralt’s cock gave a heavy throb against the ties holding it in.

He knew what he wanted.

Jaskier propped himself up on an elbow and bared his throat. Teasing him. “I don’t care much about _why_. Just _what_.”

“I think you know,” Geralt growled, low and feral. He _didn’t_ want to play a game, he wanted to bury himself to the hilt in Jaskier’s body and make him _sing_.

Jaskier exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath that killed the smile on his face. “Humor me and use your words, Geralt.” His voice wavered, but not with fear. There wasn’t even a hint of the sour stink.

Geralt lowered himself over Jaskier, pinning him as he grabbed a fistful of thick brown hair and closed his mouth over Jaskier’s throat. Against his tongue and teeth, Jaskier swallowed and gasped, and his hands came up to grasp at the pillow under his head. His hips bucked up, driving his bare cock against the leather holding Geralt’s, and Geralt snarled against the fragile skin beneath his lips. “I’m not one for words, Jaskier.”

“T-that’s alright, I’ve quite enough for the both of us,” Jaskier stuttered, frustration building in his body and voice. “Besides, I see you’re a man of action—” Hs voice rose an octave when Geralt grabbed hold of his hands and pinned them by his head, keeping most of his restless wriggling and grasping to a minimum. “—much better suited to act, of course! I shan’t stop you.”

Geralt snorted against the bruised skin of Jaskier’s throat, then worked his way down his chest. “Could you?”

A rather pleasing keen escaped Jaskier’s lips. “Why would I even try?”

Geralt dragged his teeth very slowly over a prominent hipbone as he gave that question the consideration it deserved. There were probably many reasons between the both of them, but one in particular had his blood boiling. The thought of Jaskier’s sinewy strength pressing urgently against him, reluctant and struggling—

“Oh, you naughty little wolf,” Jaskier hissed as he locked his legs around Geralt’s torso. “You’re imagining it, and it’s ending rather pleasantly, isn’t it? Perhaps you’re more beast than man… Tell me, Witcher, in your darkest fantasy, am I scared? Do I cry?”

Geralt burned as he released his hold on Jaskier to drag ragged nails down his flank, leaving angry red welts behind. Filthy words falling from sinful lips. “You scream,” Geralt whispered against the soft skin of his belly, felt Jaskier’s cock jolt against his chest. His own pressed angrily against its prison, mounting in frustration.

He’d seen Jaskier move before, he was quick on his feet when he wasn’t blind to his surroundings, but he’d never seen the man move quite so fast as he did then. Jaskier twisted and stretched, the light from their lone candle casting shadows over his body, and snatched the trousers Geralt had tossed to the floor. Geralt heard the clatter of objects rolling across the old wood, until Jaskier found a small vial of oil with a triumphant shout and slapped it into Geralt’s hand.

Jaskier tangled his own into Geralt’s hair, his urgency sending pinpricks of pain along his scalp. “Make me scream, then, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice. He poured a generous amount of the oil into his hands as Jaskier undid the lacing of his trousers with skilled fingers, then tugged the well-worn leather down until Geralt’s cock sprang free. Jaskier’s groan matched Geralt’s own, relief twisted up with raw need.

Geralt could have come with Jaskier’s breath alone against him. His belly tightened with want as Jaskier took in the sight of him greedily, then threw himself back to the bed and watched as Geralt slicked himself up.

Geralt paused then, enjoying the way Jaskier watched as he stroked himself. How his breath quickened and his lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them. He wanted those lips around his cock, those ice blue eyes staring up at him, but—“Another time…” he muttered, the thought unspoken between them, though likely shared if the filthy smile on Jaskier’s face was any indication.

“We’ll make a list.” Jaskier huffed when Geralt gripped one leg behind the knee and pushed it to his chest. “I’ll make doing the splits on the source of your manliness— _oh!_ ”

An irritated jab shortened by a soft exclamation when Geralt pushed two fingers into him. He called upon the tattered remains of his patience and shut his eyes against the sight of Jaskier against the old and threadbare furs.

Jaskier gave him a minute of relative silence, save for the heavy rasp of his breath, before he muttered, “Fuck me, Witcher. I don’t need gentling.”

There was certainly nothing gentle about the way Geralt handled the mischievous bard from then on. Fucking into Jaskier’s body was a release of its own—like an arrow let loose from its bow—and the _sounds_ Jaskier made...

There was nothing human about the howl that ripped itself free from Jaskier’s throat. His hands slammed into the wooden bedframe, last minute defense as Geralt’s thrust pushed him up the mattress. Geralt saw very clearly the sweat beading on his skin, the heaving rise and fall of his chest, ribs prominent as his back arched off of the bed.

Jaskier was tight, _so_ tight, around him. Geralt worried the slightest movement would have him undone. Fever heat surrounded him and Jaskier reached for him, mindless pleas falling on deaf ears. He latched on and did not let go, and only when his lips pressed hard against Geralt’s jaw did he hear.

“Are you man or beast, Geralt?’

Geralt swallowed Jaskier’s screams, felt them against his tongue as it pressed against the sharp edges of Jaskier’s teeth. His fingernails were like knives on Geralt’s skin, and yet again Geralt found himself surprised by the bard’s strength. It had been easy to pull Jaskier tight against him, but impossible to push him away.

So he stopped trying.

Jaskier’s scattered cries quickly became more urgent. Desperate and breathless, his hips canted against Geralt’s stomach, cock slick and hot against his skin, and his hands tightened against Geralt’s scalp before finding their place yet again on the headboard.

The smell of blood tainted the air as splinters pierced Jaskier’s fingertips. “Jaskier—”

“Geralt, if you so much as— _fuck_! Fuck—I’m close. Never mind. S-slow down.” Jaskier’s only warning—he was much closer than _close_ —before his body seized around Geralt’s cock. Jaskier turned his face to his shoulder, eyes shut as tightly as Geralt’s as sensation overcame them. Geralt stilled for a brief moment, the shuddering grip around his cock almost too much to bear.

Jaskier’s breath left him suddenly and violently before slurred curses left him in a rush. He came untouched, pearly white stripes painting his chest. He lay still for a moment, the only movement between them his own spasms, before he peered up at Geralt through dark lashes. He gave an experimental roll of his hips, before shaking his head, _no_. “Geralt, I can’t—”

Geralt could not have possibly stopped then. He tightened his grip on Jaskier’s waist, fucking hard into his body. Jaskier’s startled screams and stuttered pleas were music all on their own, drowning out Geralt’s own huffs of effort and the sound of skin against skin. One of Jaskier’s hands flew between his legs to Geralt’s stomach, a failing attempt to control the Witcher’s body.

Geralt fell over Jaskier, one arm across his chest to further pin him as he moved wildly beneath him. A body and mind in conflict, Geralt suspected. The poor bard met his pace as often as he tried to wiggle free, and was as likely to grope Geralt as he was to hit him.

Jaskier’s overstimulation did not earn him mercy, though maybe Geralt would feel bad about the whole ordeal later. In the moment, however, he covered Jaskier’s mouth with his own, and madly chased his own release.

Geralt’s climax bordered on violence. He pushed deep into the heat of Jaskier’s body, held him in a crushing embrace Jaskier didn’t seem to mind too terribly, and bit harshly into a full bottom lip to stifle the sound that threatened to escape him. His cock throbbed painfully and his own muscles trembled with the effort required to bring himself down. Double-edged pleasure he welcomed into his body.

Lust still ran hotly through his veins, settled dark and ugly in his belly, but Jaskier’s limit had been met—and quite possibly exceeded.

Geralt let loose a shuddering breath as he slipped free from Jaskier, face buried in the crook of his neck even when Jaskier’s talented fingers combed through the knots in his hair. Gentle and far more intimate than anything they’d shared between them yet—strange, but not unwelcome.

“I _will_ meet your appetite,” Jaskier announced, voice a little worse for wear and still a bit breathless, but no less cheerful.

Geralt relaxed very slowly into Jaskier, mindful of the weight he placed upon him but determined his acceptance when no protest was forthcoming. Doubtful of the claim, he simply huffed into Jaskier’s skin.

“In the meantime, however,” Jaskier continued slyly, “I shall sing your praises to the masses. That these particular talents are not mentioned when describing you presently is unacceptable.”

“Careful, bard,” Geralt growled, testing his teeth against Jaskier’s salty skin. “If you still have enough of a voice to sing, you’ve enough energy to fuck.”

“You’ve come to a horrible conclusion, Geralt.” Jaskier lifted his head to place a slow and unexciting kiss to his lips. “I’ve been known to sing in my sleep,” he whispered after a beat, laughing when Geralt tried to make an escape.

With a hand tight around his wrist, Geralt glared down at Jaskier. “I'll stay if you promise to be quiet.”

“I do not promise, but you’ll stay anyway.”

Jaskier was loud, even in his sleep.

But perhaps he could have been worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, turns out I have a couple of smutty bunnies that are demanding to come to life and so this shit is going to continue until I get them all out. I guess some will be related (like this chapter and the previous), but most probably won't... Just a collection of smut now - we're all heathens here.
> 
> Anyway, what you're tuning into this time is a near 3k word blowie! Impressive, yeah?! WRONG it's just too much I have a problem.

Destiny was a funny thing. Geralt wondered at the strangeness of the lives entangled with his own, at the paths they chose for him or subsequently led him down. Were these events simply random, or picked, cruelly, with some level of forethought and consideration by a force so great and so powerful as to be able to command the entirety of all life on the Continent?

Geralt decided it was the latter. Jaskier’s tenacity had nothing to do with destiny and every thing to do with driving him insane.

He’d been on the road for days and had seen more monster than man in that time. He’d spoken to no one beyond Roach, but the time between each short conversation had been filled with peace and quiet, though his thoughts had gone in restless circles. After travelling with Jaskier for a length of time, silence had become a stranger—and the fact that Geralt noticed the man’s absence bothered him more than he could rightly put into words.

So when he came across a bustling town and Jaskier came upon him not _ten minutes_ after setting foot onto cobblestone streets… Well, Geralt did not believe in coincidence, and he especially did not believe in it when Jaskier eagerly called upon him with some level of desperation.

Geralt moved a bit more quickly, hoping to lose the bard in the market.

“Geralt! Oh, Geralt, it is so wonderful to see you again, how have you been? Good, I hope—Listen, I’ve found myself in a bit of trouble, and… Geralt, slow down, please.” A request Jaskier made more of a demand after he caught Geralt’s arm, and though Jaskier had no possible way of truly stopping him, he found himself halting all the same. “You really must help me.”

Geralt thought his expression would have said more than his words, but when Jaskier’s expectant shine did not dim into disappointment, he asked, “Must I?”

Jaskier’s hand tightened on his arm, and though it was surely his imagination, Geralt thought he could feel the warmth of that touch through the thick padding of his armor. “Consider it a step towards your apology for leaving me like you did. Really, the men after me will pose no problem. Glower and brood and breathe in their direction and I’m sure they’ll scurry off.”

Geralt didn’t care much for Jaskier’s problems, and needed no assurances that the men after him would be easily warded off, but he was caught on one assumption Jaskier had made. “ _Apology_?”

Jaskier’s patient smile and shining eyes grated on Geralt, and when he spoke he spoke slow and soft. “Your disappearing in the middle of the night is nothing new, Geralt, and I’ve no issue with it. But when you leave a man without a shirt that hasn’t been torn to ribbons, in a filthy inn, a bit worse for wear despite an incredible go of it—well, Geralt, you owe that man an apology.”

 _Ah_ … There was the source of his restless thoughts. Guilt he’d worked towards shedding on his week long walk dragged out and put on display. “Jaskier…” He struggled for the words, unsure of what to say, but the bard rolled his eyes and waved off his attempt.

“You’re not one for words, Geralt. So help me in this and I’ll consider it _part_ of your apology,” Jaskier said, and the shadow of a smile that graced his features was familiar in its suggestion.

Clamoring and shouting amongst the crowd cooled Geralt’s blood. He heaved a sigh before letting his pack—and the head of a werewolf—fall to the cobblestone. “So?” he asked, catching sight of the nasty grin on Jaskier’s face before he turned to face the foolish men who charged down the street.

“So?” Jaskier hummed back, his body warm at Geralt’s back.

“What have you done?” A quick glance and Geralt added, with something not unlike amusement, “Three words or less.”

Jaskier’s smile was broad and unapologetic. “Sang your praises.”

* * *

“To think—” Jaskier gasped when Geralt drove him against the wall, but continued on as if Geralt’s lips weren’t on his neck or his hand on his ass, “—they were so easily cowed by your glare… Do you not think I am very brave, then, to be able to withstand your glares on a near constant basis?”

This time, Geralt was very careful as he opened Jaskier’s doublet and untucked his shirt. “I think you talk too much, Jaskier,” he grumbled. Sliding a hand under the well-worn fabric and up Jaskier’s chest, he hid the ghost of a smile against his shoulder as Jaskier trembled under his touch.

“I talk normally, you just don’t talk enough,” Jaskier huffed, his head rolling to the side to allow Geralt his freedom. He was pliant and willing against Geralt, and murmured his thanks when Geralt bared his torso _politely_ , as opposed to destroying the fine material.

Jaskier was still marred with bruises and bites from their last meeting, now faded yellow but clearly visible in daylight. Tracing each mark with a blunt fingertip, Geralt could quite vividly imagine what he had looked like the following morning, and wondered if Jaskier had tried to spin a story.

Jaskier hummed lightly and pushed Geralt, only just resisting a protest, to arm’s length. He plucked at the various clasps of his armor, each piece falling to their feet with a satisfying thud. “I had to tell a great tale of being accosted by brutes on the road from Novigrad. They came upon me as I was setting camp, demanding all that I had on me or my life… A rather logical choice, but they realized too late that, despite my regal air and noble features, I am just a bard, and my poverty enraged them—Do you wish to laugh? Please do, I promise I won’t judge.”

“You are insufferable,” Geralt simply said.

Jaskier laughed as he tugged at Geralt’s shirt and pressed a sloppy kiss to his sternum. “I looked every inch the beaten bard. It would have been a highly believable story if innkeepers didn’t gossip like noblewomen. They did not appreciate our… vigor. I was, apparently, quite loud.” He made a strange little noise when Geralt moved away to pull his shirt over his head, and his eyes raked Geralt’s body as lewdly as his hands could have. “Your apology is going very well so far.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow and undid his trousers with forced laziness. “I’ve done nothing.”

“The setting is much improved. Although, you could be cleaner,” Jaskier argued. He stepped out of the last of his clothing and pressed flush against Geralt, smooth and soft where Geralt was scarred and rigid. “That being said, if you believe you’ve done nothing, I anxiously await your groveling affection.”

Geralt tangled a hand in Jaskier’s hair, tilting his head back and meeting his glittering gaze. “I do not _grovel_ , Jaskier.”

A lilting hum and the flash of white teeth behind a grin. “You also don’t know how to _say_ sorry, so out of the kindness of my heart, I will accept an apology on your knees. Nice and simple.” Jaskier spoke in jest, though his throat worked at the suggestion and a flash of heat dimmed his eyes, the thought alone affected him plainly. It was clear, however, that he did not _expect_ such a thing.

Which was, perhaps, the _only_ reason Geralt sank to his knees then and there.

He peered up at Jaskier, relishing in his stunned silence, and ran his hands up slender thighs as he licked a long, slow, line from groin to naval. Jaskier’s hands seized by his head, as if he wanted to bury them in his hair, but uncertainty kept him at bay.

“Nothing to say, Jaskier?” Geralt prompted, digging his thumbs into trembling muscle. It was a heady feeling, still having power over a man in this position. Acknowledging that, however, meant acknowledging that Jaskier had spoken and Geralt had responded without thought—and was that not power of its own?

“I do not believe the necessary words to describe this event exist,” Jaskier mumbled. He carded his fingers into Geralt’s hair, knocking loose the leather thong holding it out of his face, and sending pleasant sparks racing down his spine. “But… that did not sound much like an apology.”

Geralt pressed open-mouth kisses everywhere around Jaskier’s half-hard cock, worried thin and sensitive skin between his teeth until deep red marks blotted porcelain skin and a miserable sound tore free from Jaskier’s tightly clamped lips.

There was something very deeply gratifying about leaving marks on unspoiled skin. 

“Geralt, I am _not_ above begging. I’ve begged for food, I’ve begged for my life, and if you are going to get on your knees in front of me, I will absolutely beg for your mouth on my cock.” There was an edge to Jaskier’s voice and a wild look in his eye that Geralt decided he liked quite a lot.

Geralt had barely gotten the head of his cock past his lips before Jaskier lurched forward, a plaintive cry slicing through the air. He hesitated for a brief moment, but only a moment, until Jaskier pleaded, “No, no, nope, do not. Apology accepted. Never mind. Too fast— _Geralt!_ ”

Squeezing the base of his cock, Geralt swallowed him near whole. Hot and heavy on his tongue, though the frantic curses were a much sweeter reward. The result, as it were, was worth more to Geralt than the action. He was, however, a bit cruel in his attention. Aware of Jaskier’s worry, he did everything he possibly could have to make it come to fruition.

Jaskier bowed over him, hands ripping at Geralt’s hair and sweat dripping from his temples onto Geralt’s back. As soon as Geralt moved his hand from his cock, his body jolted, his hips canting, fucking into Geralt’s mouth.

He _allowed_ the liberty taken then, knowing the poor man was walking a wire and only a handful of thrusts away from coming.

Geralt couldn’t catch him before he pulled away, hands leaving Geralt’s head to grip his own cock, white knuckled around angry red, spit slick skin. His knees buckled, hitting the wooden floor hard within the V of Geralt’s folded legs, his head ducked and flushed chest rising and falling in a slightly concerning fashion.

To say Geralt was dumbstruck would be an understatement, and so he very smartly asked, “What?”

A shaking hand came to rest against the side of his neck as Jaskier’s breathing slowed to a more normal rate. His other hand played lower, tapping a rhythm high on Geralt’s thigh before his fingers curled around his own aching length. “Because you, Witcher, have the appetite of an incubus, and I plan to keep up this time. I’ve got two, maybe three, rounds in me, so use them wisely and don’t—dear lord, do not ever fall to your knees before me ever again. Unless it’s a holiday. Or my birthday.”

Geralt struggled to think through Jaskier’s hand stroking his cock. “That’s… your strategy, then? Jaskier, you could not possibly keep up—”

Jaskier shot him a nasty smile as he pushed him back, urging him to settle into a more comfortable position. “But I can handle a lot more than your average whore if we do it right, and you don’t have to pay me.” A moments pause when Geralt’s back hit the frame of the bed—the bed they really should have gotten to first—and he added, surely teasing but the suggestion far too much to bear, “And there may come a day where I tell you to take your pleasure until you’ve had your fill. If you are very lucky.”

It was such a very bad idea, but one Geralt couldn’t completely ignore. Especially not with Jaskier on him, hands wandering and tracing old scars as he worked his way lower. Impossibly eager and—and not at all what Geralt had expected.

He nearly punched a hole in the wooden floor when Jaskier’s mouth went round his cock. A deceiving lick from root to tip, Geralt had been prepared for the bard’s teasing, not the soft tissue of his throat working his cock like a practiced doxy.

Jaskier moved tantalizingly slowly, knew when and how hard to suck and squeeze, when to use his hands or simply swallow and hold until Geralt’s thighs quivered with the energy required to keep still. When Jaskier realized Geralt particularly liked when he tongued the connection between ball sack and shaft, while his hand stroked and squeezed, he was relentless in his attention.

Something quite audibly snapped when Jaskier cupped his balls and pressed a finger to the sensitive skin behind them. They both started at the sound, Geralt’s hand coming away from the bed and Jaskier looking up very slowly.

“Why, Geralt…” Jaskier began, breath hot against the wet skin of his cock. The smile he flashed was terrifying in its brilliance. “I think you’ve just broken the bed.” His teeth skimmed dangerously close to Geralt’s groin, and his cock gave a heavy jolt in the bard’s talented hands. “You like this?” he asked innocently, one finger sliding from the crease of his leg to his scrotum, his touch featherlight.

Geralt dropped the shard of wood and made a very conscious effort to control his breathing. “Why has your mouth stopped, bard?” A loss Geralt would not entertain for long.

“Bossy! Can I hear a please? While I may not mind, may even _enjoy,_ lavishing attention upon your otherworldly body, there is some amount of effort required to properly tune this fiddle.” Jaskier ran the flat of his palm along Geralt’s length, pressing it hard against his belly and offering a cheeky grin.

“Then just keep your mouth open and do nothing,” Geralt growled, catching Jaskier’s jaw with one hand and taking hold of his cock with the other. Something flashed in Jaskier’s expression, something dark and heated, and then he did as he was told.

Geralt fucked deep into Jaskier’s throat, acutely aware of the barest scrape of teeth against his sensitive skin. He felt more than heard the sounds Jaskier made, vocal chords vibrating along his cock, increasing the tension in Geralt’s body. Jaskier’s face was flushed, brow furrowed in rapt concentration and eyes shut. His muffled moans and rattling gasps for air between each thrust increased as one hand slid from Geralt’s thigh to his own cock. He worked at a furious, desperate pace, and full body tremors overcame his small frame.

That was, perhaps, Geralt’s own undoing. Tension releasing, a final thrust before he held Jaskier’s head down, nose pressed firmly against the curly bed of hair at the base of his cock. A ragged, animal sound escaped Geralt unbidden as he spilled suddenly, and his grip only tightened when Jaskier’s eyes snapped open to lock onto his face. A strange mix of alarm and fierce arousal, he choked around Geralt’s cock, an obscene mix of spit and come spilling from the seal of his lips. His hands returned, one notably slick against his skin, hitting and clawing anxiously wherever he could reach.

Releasing Jaskier took conscious effort, and as soon as his grip eased Jaskier pulled away, coughing to clear his throat and breath wheezing from his chest. When he looked back to Geralt, only slightly recovered, it was with a fierce glare. “There is such a thing as _warning_ , Witcher! And a modicum of self-restraint would have been nice!” His voice was little more than a painful rasp.

“Hmm…” All Geralt could presently offer, spent as he was, but he did catch Jaskier before he scrambled too far away. A glance lower confirmed his own suspicions, though he hesitated to point it out when Jaskier was so… wounded. “I’ll remember next time.” A weak promise he didn’t at all mean, but Jaskier’s anger seemed to melt away.

“Next time? And when will _next time_ be?” Jaskier asked, relaxing between his legs and trailing a finger through the hair on Geralt’s chest. “Before or after you run away with your tail between your legs?”

Geralt ignored the jab and answered easily, “Ideally after I bathe, or _right now_ if you do not stop touching me.”

He was surprised by the indecision in Jaskier’s hands at that, flitting nervously away before returning, and even more so by his response. “And if I were to, say, bathe with you? For practical reasons, of course. There’s only one tub of hot water, after all.” Geralt wasn’t allowed an answer before Jaskier was on his feet and starting towards the adjoining room. “It’s decided then. We bathe, we fuck, and then we eat. If one of those things occurs during another, then one could argue that it is out of our hands entirely.”

Geralt got to his feet slowly, enticed but not foolishly so. He mourned the loss of a decent bath.

By the time he would be done with the silver-tongued bard, there would be very little water left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever get sick halfway through writing something? Well that happened here. My sinuses have it out for me.
> 
> I have about four of these going at once, not even sure what I'm looking at here my sinuses have claimed my gotdang eyeballs, too... Either way, smut is smut is smut. I keep telling myself it literally does not matter what I produce because it is just all sex, but somehow it MATTERS - like, what if I want to write some D/s stuff? Kind of want Jaskier to be a little bossy, kind of feel weird about that, but oh my god is messy fucked up Geralt not also a super hot prospect? And what does it matter, Geralt and Jaskier do not canonically fuck, so therefore everything I write doesn't even have solid basis on anything canon, so if I want Geralt on his knees and begging, who can tell me that's wrong? NO ONE. Still, feels like it matters just a bit.
> 
> This, however, is not that (yet), it is just Geralt going to TOWN on a naughty little bard and he probably doesn't even really deserve it. Porn WITH the suggestion of feelings, please and thank you.

Jaskier was a fool. Blinded by a foolish desire to see Geralt jealous, desperate to be _right_ , and unwilling to accept anything less than Geralt’s full cooperation in his plight. He’d set his simple mind upon something and wouldn’t quit until he got what he wanted, and if he attracted danger along that path?

Well, Jaskier was a fool… But perhaps Geralt could consider himself one as well—Jaskier’s display had worked well enough. Every smile, every heated glance, and every fleeting touch to a handsome stranger’s arm stoked an angry fire Geralt hadn’t been able to ignore since Jaskier’s target had started reciprocating his affections.

Geralt did not _sulk_ in his corner while Jaskier flirted. He absolutely did not drink an ale or two more than he should have while Jaskier allowed the man to duck his head close to his neck and whisper in his ear. He definitely did not imagine the myriad of ways he could kill the bastard when Jaskier’s brilliant blue eyes glazed over, wide and unfocused, and his secret little smile wavered, as unsteady as his legs until his stranger supported him with gentle hands.

So consumed by his fire, Geralt nearly missed the meaning. Nearly missed the flash of a fang as Jaskier was guided towards the door, _too_ dazed and far too willing.

“ _Fuck_ …” Geralt surged to his feet and shouldered his swords, pushing through the rowdy crowd after his wayward bard. _Of all beasts, a fucking vampire…_ Jaskier could do nothing simple.

He found them quickly, the rapid beat of Jaskier’s heart his trail. Hidden not very deeply in an alley, Jaskier was held firmly against the vampire, hands loose on the creature’s shoulders and body similarly limp. His head lolled towards Geralt, faded gaze slow to catch up and huffing an “ _oh_ ” upon realization.

Geralt couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever been so furious. He had his sword unsheathed in a breath, startling the beast enough to catch its attention.

Jaskier sank to the ground as he was released, his mouth moving and sound escaping, but nothing remotely resembling words being formed. Rarely at such a loss for words, though Geralt was rarely so enraged. They made quite the pair; a speechless bard and an emotional Witcher.

“Apologies…” A slow drawl and a quick glance, the vampire stepped away from Jaskier and raised its hands slowly, “ _Witcher_ … I’d not realized this one was yours… Um, some advice, perhaps unwanted, but you should keep him on a tighter leash if sharing upsets you.”

Geralt was provided an easy out. Collect Jaskier and walk away, the vampire was in no mood to fight and apparently civil…

And completely unprepared for the violent swing of Geralt’s sword. Something resembling a hiss of a scream escaped Jaskier as sharp steel severed the beast’s head from its shoulders, the body falling just after its head rolled to a stop at Jaskier’s feet.

Geralt received a beat of silence before Jaskier lost it.

“What the _fuck,_ Geralt! I knew you were _jealous_ , but… but _beheading_ the poor man seems a bit excessive—”

Geralt gathered Jaskier with a heavy sigh, hauling him to his feet and leading him to the mouth of the alley. “That was no man, Jaskier, you were being bled by a vampire.” He whistled for Roach and caught Jaskier as his knees buckled, then tried to ignore the giggles that escaped him.

“Ahh… you started a feud with a rather polite vampire over me? I’m flattered.” Jaskier gave his weight to Geralt as he reached for his face, turning his head and stifling his protest with a sloppy kiss. “That was an incredibly aggressive beheading, Geralt… I thought… I could have sworn you said you didn’t get jealous—”

“I don’t.”

“—and that you wouldn’t care if I sought the attention of others…”

“I _don’t_.” Pointless insistence, Jaskier was stupid but he was not blind.

“You just decapitated a man because he touched me, Witcher. Think about that,” Jaskier snorted, the smile on his face too irritating to look at long.

Geralt propped him against Roach after gathering the gelding’s reins, wasting no time in mounting. They had an hour before the vampire would start regenerating. Fortunately, Novigrad was an easy city to get lost in.

* * *

Jaskier was vicious, refusing to pull his punches just as Geralt refused to pull his that night. He said what he needed to get what he wanted, just as he’d done at the last inn, but each jab was a sore spot Geralt hated to acknowledge.

“What did you hate the most?” A sly question spoken a bit breathlessly, Jaskier pressed restlessly against Geralt as he left bruises on pale skin. His legs came round his waist, knees pulling Geralt closer, denying retreat. “The way he touched me? Looked at me?” He howled as Geralt fucked into his body, every muscle outlined starkly beneath his skin. He tilted his head to one side, panting and eyes gleaming as he called attention to the two puncture wounds. “How about when he bit me? I won’t lie, Geralt, I might’ve liked it…”

Something dark and ugly snapped within Geralt. Something Jaskier apparently wanted, so it became something Geralt gave. Perhaps his only kindness, because what he had to give was _not_ kind. It was careless and selfish and possibly cruel, though Jaskier clung to him all the same. Greedy hands—a greedier body.

Geralt sought to break it. How much could he give before Jaskier's body would treat his touch as a painful thing? As painful as the feeling twisting in his gut?

Not a terribly difficult task. Jaskier liked his fun and often desired more, but rarely lasted long. All talk and mostly tease, he tapped out quickly and Geralt usually respected this. A man’s endurance was not a Witcher’s endurance, and Geralt rarely expected, or wanted, much more than what Jaskier offered.

That ugly thing within Geralt, given life by Jaskier, wanted more.

Jaskier enjoyed twenty minutes, maybe less. Their rhythm familiar, tried and true, pleased cries and filthy words of encouragement snarled into his skin. Jaskier grabbed and groped, head thrown back against the pillows, flushed and wild until Geralt grabbed his cock.

Everything familiar. The clench of his body, the heavy throb of his cock in Geralt’s hand, the way his eyelashes fluttered and Geralt’s name fell from his lips. All a bitter pleasure that cut deep in Geralt’s belly.

Geralt bottomed out, hips flush against Jaskier and hands soft and soothing on his skin. He returned Jaskier’s sated smile and allowed himself to be pulled in for a lazy kiss, swallowing giddy laughter when he rolled his hips.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” Jaskier said against his lips, a soft and tired groan following as Geralt moved along his jaw to his neck.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against the small puncture wounds, gentle until Jaskier patted his flank and tried to wriggle away. Finished. He bit, hard, until he tasted the metallic tang of Jaskier’s blood, and disregarded his sharp cry.

“I’m not quite done with you, Jaskier.” He spoke softly as he pulled out of Jaskier and promptly turned him onto his belly, easily pinning him by the small of his back. A weak struggle killed with a few more words, Geralt bent over Jaskier, sliding his cock between his thighs. “You asked what bothered me most?”

“O-oh, _god_ , another time, preferably not after being a monster’s midnight snack, please…” A pointless waste of words, Jaskier’s breathing was unsteady, either wanting or worried… _Both_ , Geralt realized. The heady smell of arousal tainted—or complimented—by apprehension.

“It was the way you looked at him,” Geralt hissed into Jaskier’s shoulder blade before thrusting into him, wrenching a miserable sound from his throat. His hands slammed into the headboard while he tried to get his legs under him, a motion Geralt allowed only to pull him up against his body, arms tight around Jaskier’s chest and waist.

Jaskier’s hands came up, scratching and grabbing and finally pulling, hard, at his hair, sending a feeling akin to lighting arcing down his spine. A pleasantly painful spasm of muscle, Geralt grunted and held fast as Jaskier thrashed against him.

“ _Geralt_! I _really_ c-can’t!” Jaskier’s protest rang hollow in the room. His body had life yet, cock bouncing against his belly in time with Geralt’s thrusts.

Geralt turned his face into Jaskier’s hair and inhaled sharply, the smell of sweat and sex and _Jaskier_ a perfect mix. He reached for Jaskier’s jaw, turning his head to capture his mouth, shivering when Jaskier’s teeth dug into his bottom lip.

He changed his tune when Geralt changed his angle, tension giving way to potent relief. His head fell back against Geralt’s shoulder, hands trailing gently from his head to the arm around his chest, his grip light, fingers trembling. “ _There_ , Geralt,” he hissed, toes curling against Geralt’s calves and eyes rolling. One hand flew to Geralt’s hip, digging his nails in till skin broke beneath them.

Geralt’s orgasm was not a thing of relief, though he couldn’t say the same for Jaskier. It wrenched in his gut, a sour chord played on strings tuned so tightly they would snap under a heavy hand. Jaskier, however, relaxed in his arms, a shuddering breath following a quiet whine as his seed spilled across the sheets.

He took a moment, face buried in Jaskier’s neck as he caught his breath, listening to the rapid beat of Jaskier’s heart slow to something more normal. He pushed away from Jaskier, huffing something of a laugh when the bard simply dropped back to the mattress, shaking and exhausted—and believing the battle over.

“More beast than man,” Jaskier mumbled, turning his head just slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. “I think I might have cried, just a bit.”

Panic flashed in those brilliant blue eyes when Geralt ran one hand down his back and placed his knees on either side of Jaskier’s thighs, trapping him rather effectively. “Just a bit?” Geralt asked, trailing a finger along the crease of his ass, teasing slick and tender flesh. “I must have missed it.”

Jaskier arched into his touch before snapping his hips against the mattress, distressed and desperate. “I _can’t_ , Geralt, not again…” Whispered words finished with a pained groan when Geralt slipped a finger past unresisting guardian muscles, oil and come easing the way. “F-feels like razorblades on my skin…”

Geralt pulled his finger back and parted Jaskier’s cheeks before bending down, running the flat of his tongue from his scrotum to the small of his back. At a stuttering groan, he prompted, “Bad?”

“It’s—”

“I don’t really care,” Geralt interrupted before sealing his lips over Jaskier’s hole.

The bard cried then, and not _just a bit_. He sobbed into the pillow, hips canting and restless, as likely to fuck himself on Geralt’s tongue as he was to try and squirm away before Geralt could haul him back. Never staying long where he was wanted, _hated_ , the most, when Jaskier twisted an arm to grab a fistful of hair. He played freely, adding a finger or two as he pleased, reaching where his tongue couldn’t and reminding Jaskier of the true sting of penetration when he became too complacent.

Geralt took great pains with Jaskier’s body. Satisfied only when Jaskier suffered, when he begged him off while holding him close. Mind and body in conflict. He was wild beneath him, his pleas intermingled within foul curses, his grip eager but his body tested and abused. Easily handled and easily marked, he bore proof of Geralt’s own pleasure. Finger shaped bruises and scattered crescent indents, either from nails or teeth, decorated his fair skin.

And, despite his fatigue, he accepted each temporary brand with a clumsy return of his own.

Eventually, Jaskier managed to roll onto his back, the muscles in his thighs jumping and running trembling fingers over his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes. When Geralt ran his hand through the come on Jaskier’s belly, a sound tore free from his throat, ragged and wounded, his voice in an equally pathetic state. “I truly _cannot_ take you again, Witcher… Consider my lesson learned.” He practically snarled, vicious and frustrated, when Geralt bit softly into the tender flesh next to his cock, as spent as the rest of his body. “I am _sorry_ , Geralt!”

Geralt kissed his way up Jaskier’s body, reveling in his breathless huffs and the way his hands shook when he caught his face. “You infuriate me, Jaskier.”

“It’s not very hard,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt pushed himself to his knees and sat on his heels, considering Jaskier in his vulnerability. His marks were set deep in Jaskier’s skin, vastly outnumbering the lone mark left by the vampire. That alone was satisfying enough, sating Geralt’s anger, almost enough for him to let Jaskier rest.

But the younger man was a fool. Shifting slightly against the heavy furs, Jaskier let loose a shuddering breath and carded his fingers through his own hair, eyes dark and heavy lidded, perhaps an unintentional invitation… But one Geralt wouldn’t pretend to overlook that night.

The part of him that wanted Jaskier to think of _nothing_ but him, respond to _no one_ but him, was much louder than usual. He stroked his own cock, slow and deliberate and hand slick with Jaskier’s come, giving Jaskier a chance to refuse. No protest was forthcoming when he tucked his free arm under the small of Jaskier’s back and lifted his ass, only a heavy sigh as Jaskier braced himself.

There was something slightly admirable about Jaskier’s determination, and something unsettling about his acceptance.

He slid into Jaskier’s body and met very little resistance, only fever heat surrounding his cock and the goading ripple of silk-soft muscle. Jaskier’s groan matched his own, though likely borne from a very different feeling. He shook his head and his hand came up to rest on Geralt’s chest, pressing firmly over his heart.

“F-feels almost like a normal beat,” Jaskier stuttered, something cocky about the way he smiled then. His hand slid to the back of his neck, pulling Geralt closer to slant his mouth over his. His tongue slipped past parted lips, a lazy tease Geralt accepted until Jaskier turned his face into his shoulder. "When you touch me I want to die, Geralt," he whispered into his skin.

He was quite easy to shut up. A sharp snap of his hips and Jaskier’s back bowed off of the bed, then jolted back as if he’d been burned when Geralt mimicked his touch.

“Feels almost like it’s trying to beat out,” Geralt murmured, returning Jaskier’s wild-eyed look with a mean little smile of his own. He set himself to a strong and steady pace, enjoying Jaskier’s heat, the sting of nails raking down his arms, every point of contact between them and every pitiful sound let loose from Jaskier pushing him that much closer.

 _So_ close it was bordering frustrating, a dull ache Geralt chased, his own breathing almost as ragged as Jaskier’s until Jaskier snapped like a broken string. He shoved at Geralt, who refused to give, his face twisting with surprise.

Jaskier’s whole body locked, violently pulling Geralt against him and deeper into him. An overwhelming sensation, Geralt’s second climax _was_ a relief. A pleasant burn under his skin, his cock throbbed and he held Jaskier closer as if he could somehow take more of the man, leave his mark even deeper within his body. One by one tired and aching muscles gave, the chemical release involved tingling just under his skin.

He was allowed only a few moments to enjoy the gentle high.

Jaskier broke first, choking out a startled laugh that he didn’t seem to mean. Geralt felt his panic before he could even pick up on its sourness through the heady smell of sex and sweat, and while giving Jaskier his full weight seemed to help, Jaskier still shook like a leaf against him.

Concern ruined the afterglow, but when Geralt tried to push away, Jaskier held even faster.

“If you leave me like this, Witcher, I’ll do much worse than make up stories of impotence caused by weeping warts and horrific pustules.” Jaskier’s voice, almost a rasp, contained something horribly insecure Geralt did not enjoy in the least.

It may have taken Geralt longer than he should have to respond, as unsure as he was. Jaskier jumped wherever he touched, his breath hot and unsteady against his skin, though he seemed to settle when Geralt held him more firmly. He was, perhaps, out of his depth. “I’m going to move, Jaskier. I am not going to leave,” he rushed to reassure as he shifted, rolling to his side and lifting the heavy furs over them.

“If I wake and you’re not here—”

“I’ll be here.” An easy enough promise, and one he would keep. Jaskier fit against him easily, lips pressed firmly against his sternum as he calmed.

“ _You_ wanted this, Geralt.” The words were almost a warning, true as they were and just as hard to face. “Could have just slapped my wrist and sent me off. Now you’ve got me _thinking_.”

“And the world will suffer for it, I’m sure. Just don’t sing about it, Jaskier.” A sarcastic remark used to dismiss his own thoughts, pesky little things he wasn’t as ready to face as Jaskier was.

With Jaskier lax against his side, Geralt wondered which of them was the greater fool.


End file.
